


The Man in the Moon

by AnarchyandArmistice



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (bum bum bum bum), A little Virgil Angst, Astronomy Professor Logan, Because patton is the moon man and Virgil is basically the stars, Cultural Differences, Fear of Therapists, Forgetting Ya Best Friends, Guilt, Imaginary Friends, Insecure Morality | Patton Sanders, Javelin Throwing, Just hug my boys please, Logan also needs a hug, Lord of the Stars Virgil, M/M, Moon God Patton, Morality | Patton Sanders Needs a Hug, Mr. Sandman - Freeform, Roman's an actor, Shopping, Slow Dancing, Sorry Emile, Suicidal Thoughts, Sympathetic Remus, Weaponized Use of Paprika, You heard me, Your name is Remy, mentioned Remus - Freeform, sorta - Freeform, the hug list must be expanded to Roman and virgil, uh, who turn out to be not so imaginary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnarchyandArmistice/pseuds/AnarchyandArmistice
Summary: It was only a story; one told to children to get them to bed."Shh, hon, it's time to rest. Even the man in the moon is asleep."It was Logan's favorite story, sure, but that was when he was a child. It was just a story, and he's forgotten it. Moved on to bigger and better things.Right?





	1. Imaginary

**Author's Note:**

> I suck. 
> 
> This sucks. I apologize. I'll see if I can finish it.

It was the same story all parents tell kids to get them to go to bed. 

_ “Shh, honey, it’s time for bed. Even the man in the moon is sleeping.” _

Of course, one supposes Larry and Dot didn’t expect their son to hear this and immediately answer, “What man? Why is he up there? Is anyone keeping him company?” And run to the nearest window to stare up into the night sky. 

But it’s happened, and now the two parents stand silently in the hallway, mouths agape, while five-year-old Logan smashes his forehead against the window, twisting in an attempt to catch a peek of the moon. The trees block his sight, as trees are wont to do, but Logan is undeterred.

Dot glances at Larry.

Larry looks at Dot. 

Their eyes seem to say, in the way that only long-lasting relationship eye-glances can, _ I don’t know. Got any ideas? _

_ Tell him to go to bed or he won’t have any Crofters tomorrow? _Larry’s eyes ask. 

_ Too harsh. _ Dot’s eyes reply. _ Carry him to bed? _

_ We aren’t child abusers, hon. _Larry sighs, casting his eyes toward the ceiling. The parenting books Emile recommended never said anything about What To Do When Your Child Hears An Old Idiom And Decides He’s Emotionally Invested. 

But maybe Emile could help.

Larry swivels to face Dot, double tapping his nose. He grabs his phone out of his pocket and sends off a quick SOS text to Emile. 

Dot goes to sit by Logan while Larry waits for Emile’s response. 

A minute passes, and then the quiet _ ding _sounds. Larry opens the text.

_ Sorry for the late response! I was doing something. If Lil’ Lo wants to be the Moon Man’s friend, I suggest you let him! But perhaps he needs rest, and simply can’t get it knowing his pal is up late! _

Larry grins at his phone, answering with a quick smiley face and going to reassure his son that the Moon Man is just fine.

-:-

Logan’s parents are not surprised when the Moon Man becomes a staple of their household. Sort of an inside joke, as it is. Logan speaks of him all the time, in the same breaths as his classmates, his subjects, his teachers. 

They are a _ tad _surprised when Logan announces his plan to join the Man in the Moon in holy matrimony, but that’s only because not five minutes before, he’d been happily babbling about a boy in his class who shared his love of space. 

Please understand, the only problem was that they’d expected the sentence ‘When I grow up, I am going to marry’ to end with ‘Roman Crowns’ and not ‘Patton.’

“Who’s Patton, honey?” Asks Dot, pouring more coffee for herself and Larry, as well as more hot chocolate for Logan. 

“The Moon Man.” Logan rolls his eyes as though this is as obvious as two plus two. “He told me I wasn’t gonna remember him when I grew up, but now you guys know, so you’ll remind me.”

“That we will, bit,” Larry says. “Pass the biscuits?”

-:-

“Mom, mom, mom, mom,” Logan calls. 

“Mmm, yes, honey?” Dot says, eyes not moving from the computer screen. “What’s up?”

“Can I get a telescope?” 

Dot freezes, staring at the checkbook beside her, at the oh-so-carefully-budgeted checking account. 

She tears her eyes off of them and looks at her son. 

Logan doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him. It’s the way Roman’s parents looked at him when they said his hamster Lucky ran away. It’s the way Dorian at school looked at him when he looked up with red, puffy eyes and said he’d rather die than play with Logan. 

It looks like she’s gonna lie.

“Why do you want a telescope, Lo?” 

Logan rolls his eyes. She’s avoiding answering him. That’s worse than lying. Only people who are _ nice _do that. Logan hates when people lie to be nice.

Patton lies to be nice all the time. 

“Cause I wanna see Patton, but he’s got moon duties, and it makes him tired to come down to see me all the time, Mom,” Logan says, his voice hitting the perfect ‘ten year old sees thing as completely obvious that was not obvious in the slightest’ pitch despite being three years younger.

“Well, money’s a little tight right now, hon. But maybe for your birthday?” Dot says, turning back to the computer.

Logan suppresses a sigh. That’s what she said about the bike. And the scooter. And the new laptop he hadn’t even wanted for himself, but as a faster way for her to ‘do bills.’

Then he catches sight of Roman’s red shirt out of the front window and forgets about it. Mostly.

-:-

No one was surprised when Logan announced his plan to study astronomy. 

“Aw, honey,” Dot grins, squeezing her son close in a one-armed hug. “Are you trying to go meet Patton?” 

Logan pushes her off, rolling his eyes with the vehemence only angsty teenagers (and some rare breeds of chihuahua) possess. “Please stop teasing me, Mother. I’m serious.”

“Your mother’s just teasing, Lo,” Larry says, not looking up from his script. “We can’t wait for you to get your first Nobel.”

Logan scoffs, looking away in stout denial of the faint blush on his cheeks. “I’m not going to get a Nobel, dad. I don’t even have any colleges listed.”

He pretends, not three days later, that he’d forgotten about the surreptitiously named ‘Pranks-Roman’ file in his Google Docs filled with stats and standings of various colleges around the world. 

There just isn’t enough money right now.

-:-

In time, even the most creative children forget the stories and characters they once held dear. 

For Roman Crowns, it was the Dragon Witch, a boy made of starlight with a staff of nebulae.

Dorian Mandax forgot his alter-ego, Deceit, who made him the powerful one. Who could stop his parents from lying to each other all the time. Who stopped playground bullies from pushing him down into wood chips that scraped his arms and asphalt that bruised his knees.

Emile Picani–well, Emile remembered almost everything from his childhood, including the Sandman, but who would believe him? Cartoon therapy is zany enough, he doesn’t need to add ‘still believing in imaginary friends’ to his list of eccentricities. 

And Logan Sanders has indeed forgotten the Man in the Moon. 

It’s not his fault, of course. He has enough going on, with teaching and testing his students rigorously, making sure Mom and Dad are getting enough sleep in between teaching _ their _students and putting on a different play every year, and waving off Roman’s ever-mounting concerns.

Case in point; currently, Logan is sipping his first (fifth) coffee of the morning while his best friend jabbers on about his apparent unwillingness to take a break, as if he needs one.

“–And another thing! Aren’t you always harping on your kids to rest during the holidays? Where do you get off saying that if you don’t follow your own advice, Calculator Watch?” Roman’s accusing finger falls to the table as Logan gives him his best You Wouldn’t Like To Test Me Right Now look.

“I don’t need any rest, Roman.” Logan waves to the waiter for another cup, pulling his closer as if it will somehow purge the February chill from his bones. 

Maybe he can get high from snorting coffee dregs?

Remus would know, he thinks idly.

Maybe he’ll drown himself in them. Drowned professors don’t have to grade term papers. Drowned professors don’t have to go home for mid-winter break and tell their parents that no, they’re still single and no, Roman isn’t coming because he has a performance in L.A. Drowned professors don’t have to lie through their teeth when they say they’re happy that their friend is going on a cross-country tour with a musical they adore and leaving behind their nerdy professor friend who has an unhealthy obsession with So You Think You Can Dance and the stars and the _ moon _–

“Hey, are you listening to me?” 

Logan blinks away the sharp burn in his eyes. “No. What were you saying?” He waves a hand in a ‘go on’ gesture. 

Alright, so _ perhaps _ Logan Sanders hasn’t _ quite _forgotten the Man in the Moon. It’s certainly impacted his career choices, even if subconsciously. But the fact remains that he hasn’t spared a thought for his kindergarten fiancee in years. 

This is about to change, but Logan doesn’t know that, so he takes his second (sixth) coffee to go, wraps a scarf around his already-three-sweaters-and-a-jacketed neck and pushes his way out of the nondescript cafe that totally exists in upstate Massachusetts. 

-:-

Logan doesn’t… _ understand… _ things, the way fair folk (cryptids, fae, celestials and the like) do. 

He understands, sure. He understands a lot, like string theory, or particle physics, or how this universe may be a flat disc sitting on top of another universe, which is so cool it kind of makes his head want to explode so he can't talk about it for long. Professor Logan Malorie (don’t ask) Sanders understands almost anything you can teach.

Still, he doesn’t _ understand, _ when the gates to Harvard’s hallowed halls creak open, the crisp _ change _ in the wind blowing. He doesn’t _ understand _ the way wolf packs huddle closer in their dens, whimpering. He doesn’t _ understand _how tides across the world pull back and swell higher. 

These, of course, are things fair folk _ understand. _

So Logan traipses off to his morning classes, blissfully unaware of the tiny grass sprites quaking, pulled to and from the celestial energy surrounding him.

His day goes fairly average. Perhaps a bit luckier than normal, (not a single one of his classes has that awkward pause which arises, and has arisen since the dawn of time, when no student knows the answer to a question) but still. There is no reason for Logan to suspect anything is afoot.

He doesn’t even question it when he enters his office quarters that evening and Teagan, another professor, looks up from his papers and says, “Hey, Lo, there’s someone in your office or something?” He points behind his head with the true eyesore of a fuchsia pen he uses for particularly annoying students. “I don’t know, he says he’s an old friend? And–and something else, too, I dunno, I was pretty deep in grading, and I haven’t slept for about forty-eight hours.” Teagan rubs his forehead. “Gosh, I need to give tomorrow’s class a naptime.”

Logan shrugs, patting Teagan on the shoulder as he opens the door to his office. 

His dark office. 

Logan winces. “Salutations. You should not have found it necessary to keep the lights off–” 

He stops short. 

Logan may not remember the faces of all his students, and he may not _ understand _intrinsically, but he does know for a fact that none of his students have snow-white hair. Nor do they wear blue polo shirts with gray cardigans wrapped around their shoulders.

The… _ person, _Logan settles on, is looking through the giant window that takes up most of Logan’s wall, and the full moon’s light makes their hair seem luminescent.

Logan shakes his head of that thought as they turn around, revealing chunky black glasses, freckles, and brilliant blue eyes. 

“Hi, Lo! Gosh, it’s been so long!”

Logan blanches. This can’t be possible. He was just a story, an imaginary friend for Logan to talk about stars with. 

“Patton?”

  



	2. So, You Found the Moon Man. What Now?

“How… How is this possible?” Logan is aware staring is rude, but apparently his body is currently unable to carry out orders sent from his brain. “You aren’t real. You–you’re a story, a–a personification created when the human race was still too underdeveloped to understand the true behaviors of gravitational pull and astronomical consistencies.” His feet move without his permission, and Logan runs a hand through his hair. “You don’t exist.”

“Now kiddo, I think you’re getting a little over-excited–”

Logan refuses to acknowledge_ whatever _is talking nervously as he paces around his office, rambling. “This isn’t possible. Your existence is as improbable as Alpha Centauri entering the Red Giant phase tomorrow. You aren’t–” An explanation pops into his head. “I am hallucinating.”

“Lo, you know that isn’t true–”

“Of course!” Logan smacks a fisted hand on his other open palm. “It makes perfect sense. I’ve gone without sleep for a consecutive thirty-six hours–”

“Kiddo! That isn’t safe for humans!”

“–Of _ course _I am experiencing hallucinations!” Logan packs his messenger bag, chest heaving in triumph. He straightens the office a tad because walking in and pulling a roundabout immediately after would look insane, stoutly ignoring Patton’s befuddled drifting around the room. 

“Kiddo, I’m not a hallucination,” Patton says. His eyes are soft and full of pity. Logan would be indignant, but the unbridled relief flooding him at the mere notion that he hasn’t experienced some psychotic breakdown takes precedence.

Logan holds the door open. 

“W–what are you doing, Lo-lo?” Patton asks, brows drawn up in confusion.

“Well, on the statistically unlikely chance that you are not a sleep deprivation-induced mirage,” Logan says in the same cadence he takes with students. “I am most definitely not to be taken as inhospitable.” He gestures Patton through the door.

Teagan waves as they walk out of the office, and Logan gives what he hopes is a kind nod. “Have a good night.”

“Bye, Logan. Bye, Logan’s friend.” Teagan turns back to his work.

“Your professor friend believes I’m here!” Patton protests as they walk to the bus stop. “He saw me, so I must be real!”

“Teagan has been without sleep for a consecutive forty-eight hours,” Logan counters. He counts the stars above them. Alpha Centauri, Venus, Sirius, Vega. “Moreover, he is the one who told me you would be waiting. It is entirely possible and extremely likely that he hallucinated you, or something else, out of the corner of his eye and my subconscious took that idea and figuratively ran with it.”

They reach the bus stop. Patton still looks ethereal, even in the off-yellow-beige glow given off by the stop’s streetlight. His eyes are metallic, nearly glowing azure, and that is really not good for Logan’s blood pressure. 

He’s rude. Patton is being rude. 

Logan frowns at the childish thought, shaking his head clear as his bus rounds the corner and comes to the same shrieking halt it always does. 

Rude. Logan hasn’t used the word rude in years. 

He boards the bus, ushering Patton along.

They ride to Logan’s stop in silence. Patton stares out the window, a blank look on his face that Logan can’t recall from his childhood. 

This isn’t the worst ride home Logan’s ever had, but it is certainly the most uncomfortable. 

He’s glad to walk the three blocks from their stop to his apartment. At least he can count stars to distract from the awkwardness of this. Alpha Centauri, Venus, Sirius, Vega, “Betelgeuse, Arcturus, Rigel, Canopus–”

“I like Antares.”

“What?” Logan squints at Patton. What a non sequitur.

“You were listing stars. I like Antares.” Patton smiles up at the night sky. He looks soft in the starlight not blocked by light pollution.

Logan squints harder. He was counting, sure, but how would Patton know that– “Oh, Newton. I apologize. I was counting out loud again, wasn’t I?”

“No problem, kiddo! I didn’t mind. But, if you don’t mind me asking, what do you mean, counting?”

Logan takes a crosswalk right onto Ladine Lane. “I was looking at the sky and identifying different stars as they appeared. Counting is easier to say.” He makes a left. “I do it rather often, I suppose.”

“Oh, that’s neat. Virgil would be glad to hear people are so interested in his babies.” 

“His what? Who’s Virgil?” Logan bites back all the questions he wants to ask, reminding himself that Patton, his Moon Man, is in fact a mirage produced by lack of sleep.

“Who’s Virgil?” Patton repeats. “You remember him, right? He was Roman’s friend. You’re still friends with Roman, right?” 

“Uh, yes. And Roman did possess an imaginary friend, but I recall he used the title–”

“The Dragon Witch! Right, sorry,” Patton nods enthusiastically. 

Logan hums. “Ah, in here.” He holds the door of his apartment complex open for Patton. 

They take the elevator. Patton beams bemusedly at everything. Logan fidgets, running through a to-do list in his head. Is his apartment clean? He may keep it tidy out of habit, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t give a sweep or a mop for company. Patton isn’t company, though. He’s a mirage. This is stupid, Logan feels stupid, and wow, there’s another word he hasn’t used in a while– “Why do you like Antares?”

His eyes are squeezed shut.

Logan pries them open. The elevator comes to a stop.

“I like Antares because she was one of the first stars Virgil and I made together.” Patton follows him out to his apartment and waits for Logan to open the door. “She’s been alive almost as long as I have, and we are _ old.” _He laughs. Logan doesn’t.

They make their way into Logan’s apartment. 

“Do you know what stage Antares is at?” Patton asks. There’s an odd, strained note to his voice that Logan can’t place.

“It’s a Red Giant, isn’t it?” Logan says, ignoring the part of himself reflexively suggesting he offer a drink. 

“Yeah. She’s tired.” Patton sighs, sitting on Logan’s understuffed sofa. “I don’t want to see her go before me.”

Logan frowns, taking a seat in his window chair. Feelings, the bane of his existence. From what he knows, the moon will never die, and Antares has a very real expiration date. But Patton is not the moon, so would it truly be lying? “I… Patton, I confess, I don’t know how much comfort I am able to provide. But it will be a long time before Antares goes supernova. More than enough to figure out a way to save her, I would assume.”

“Well, kiddo, you know what happens when you assume,” Patton says.

“Huh?” Logan squints. “No?”

“You make an ‘as’ out of ‘su’ and ‘me,’” Patton giggles, leaning back into Logan’s couch.

“What?” Logan cocks his head to the side. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lo.”

“Alright,” Logan says, standing. If this hallucination wants to let go of what little sense of logic it has, he won’t stop it. “I’m going to bed. Do you–ah, need anything?”

“Nope. I’m as comfy as a cat in pajamas,” Patton grins. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right.” Logan rounds the corner to his bedroom hallway. “And, Pat?”

“Yes, Lo?”

“I am confident you will not see your Antares die before you,” Logan retreats to his room, unwilling to bear witness to Patton’s reaction to the idiocy of his last-ditch attempt at comfort.

Patton relaxes into the sofa, letting his weary bones ache. Light travel is no joke, especially when you don’t quite know where you’re going. He lets his eyes fall half-lidded, murmuring to the quiet room, “I know I won’t, Logan. Thank you.”

Patton sleeps for the first time.

-:-

Logan wakes to a bright, unforgiving Saturday morning and the wish that he could sink into his bedsheets and stop existing. He tears himself from his bed and staggers into his kitchen, a down blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His coffee is ready, thank Newton for pre-set brewing. He grabs the creamer and stops short.

Does he really want to drink a whole pot of coffee all at once? Is he willing to clean the pot? Scratch that, is he willing to _ drink _ from the pot, clicking up the lid every time he wants a sip? Logan doesn’t even like opening and closing his thermos. Then again, Logan doesn’t like using a thermos, so it’s really not a valid comparison. 

The thought of cleaning creamer from the pot’s nooks and crannies scares and disgusts Logan all the way over to his mug cabinet. He pulls out one of his affectionately named (by Remus) Giant-Ass Mugs Logan Won’t Let Us Put Bourbon In (Giant-Ass Mugs for short) and turns to his breakfast bar–

Patton stands, not moving, as though this will keep Logan from seeing him. 

Logan sees him. 

“No,” Logan says, turning back to his coffee maker and dumping about half a cup of creamer into the pot.

He walks out into his living room and sits on the couch, sipping from his brand-new mug as he opens his laptop up to Google and searches ‘psychosis symptoms.’

Patton stares. Logan ignores him.

A fairly helpful tumblr post tells him to take a picture of the hallucination to see if it is real or not. Logan holds his phone next to him, eyes locked on his computer screen, and takes a photo. 

The resulting picture is slightly blurry, possibly due to the way Logan’s entire body is beginning to tremble. Still, Patton’s face beams through, confused and troubled, eyes as brilliant and otherworldly as ever.

Logan sends it to Roman with the caption _ What do you see in this photograph? _

_ Uhh, a hot guy? _ Roman responds. _ Why, what do you see? _

_ Unfortunately, I perceive an attractive male specimen as well. _

_ Use english, prof _

_ I would recommend you use proper grammar, Roman. And I was under the impression he was a hallucination until this morning. Apparently, he’s some sort of moon god. _

Logan sighs, turning to face Patton, who seems to be reading the titles of various magazines strewn about his breakfast bar. He waves the phone in his hand defeatedly. “Roman believes in you. Satisfied?” 

“Well, do you believe I’m real?” Patton asks softly. Still so full of kind-hearted pity, even after all this time.

Logan takes a gulp from his mug. “‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’” These are brave (if stolen) words from a man wearing a duvet like a cape and drinking a pot of coffee whole, but some of history’s finest are crazy. And gay. 

Just take a look at Michalangelo.

“That’s nice,” Patton says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “But do you believe me?”

“I… don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what to say. But I am not in a state of psychosis, I have slept and feel physically okay, and I am unable to pinpoint a reason for seeing you beyond that you are real, Patton.” Logan takes a deep breath. 

Questions pile up in the absence of his disbelief. Why is Patton here? How did he come to Earth? How did he come into being? What is space like? Are most people’s imaginary friends real? Is Patton being here going to hurt anything? Is Virgil coming to visit Roman? What would a DNA sample from Patton look like? What–

A quiet ding sounds from Logan’s phone, pulling him from his thoughts. 

_ Uh, _ Roman writes, _ ya think that has something to do with this guy who just appeared in my apartment and started screaming about his friend? _

There’s a picture attachment. Logan takes a look and shoves the screen under Patton’s nose. “You know him?”

“Yeah!” Patton says, grabbing Logan’s phone with one hand. “That’s Virgil! Where’d you get a picture of him? … Why’s it so blurry?”

“Just as I assumed.” Logan snatches his phone back, abandoning his blanket cape. He takes a look down at his flannel pajama pants and graphic t-shirt. No time to change, and Roman’s apartment is barely a walk away. “Come with me.”

He grabs Patton’s (surprisingly firm and toned) upper arm, pulling him into the foyer and shoving on some shoes before practically sprinting down the hallway and down the stairs, ignoring Patton’s yelp.

“What are we doing? Where are we going? Lo, I don’t–”

“Virgil has appeared in Roman’s apartment, presumably to find _ you. _As I do not wish to see my companion harmed by yours, I am streamlining the process.” Logan pushes out of the building.

“Well, I, um–how do you know he’s looking for me?” Patton asks. The hand of his Logan has subconsciously slipped his own in is clammy.

Logan growls under his breath. “Do you really think I’m that–that–that _ stupid? _ I understand cause and effect _ perfectly. _ For example, _ cause; _ you appear in my office yesterday at eight in the evening, derailing my plans for the night. _ Effect; your _ friend accosts _ mine _ to find _ you.” _

They come to a stop at Roman’s building. Logan rings his doorbell and steps back, crossing his arms and letting go of Patton’s hand. He ignores how cold his palm is now. 

The buzzer sounds, and Roman’s voice crackles through the speaker. Logan can hear commotion in the background, as well as a few crashes. _ “Yeah, uh, hi? Who is this? I’m a little busy right now _ – _ hey, Jack Smellington! Put that down, that was twenty bucks _ – _ shit! Maybe come back in a _–”

“Roman, it’s me,” Logan says. “I have the person he’s looking for. Buzz us up.”

_ “Logan? Oh, thank god. Sure, just a sec _ – _ Incredible Sulk, I swear, if you knock that off my table _ – _ that was a _ gift, _ you hooligan!” _

Roman keeps screaming, but another buzz sounds and Logan moves to hold the door open for Patton. “Come on.”

They hurry up to Roman’s apartment. Faint yelling can be heard through the door, the kind that reminds one of that time they heard the couple downstairs screaming about who had left the toilet seat up. Logan tests the door, and sure enough, in true Roman fashion, it’s unlocked. He holds it open and pushes Patton inside.

The scene is… perhaps not unexpected, given Roman’s personality and tendency to argue vehemently with even his beloved twin brother, but unorthodox nonetheless. 

The couch is upturned, and Roman stands on the side nearest Logan and Patton, behind the kitchen island. He’s holding a broom like a sword, which Logan finds strange because Roman _ owns _a sword. There’s mascara smeared underneath his left eye, which means the Dragon Witch caught Roman in the middle of his morning routine. That explains why he’s so… voluminously angry. Logan knows first hand that one does not interrupt Roman’s routine.

On the other end of the room, crouched near the little living space’s fireplace, is the Dragon Witch. His cape is flared and moves in an invisible wind. It would probably be unsettling in the right context, but at the moment it strikes Logan as the same nervous tic as a frill-necked lizard flapping out its neck and screaming. What is a little unsettling, though, is the pinpricks of light seemingly emitted from his cape, as well as the staff he grips, which seems to be emitting a steady, pulsing light.

They’re both yelling.

“Roman–Roman! Calm down! I’m just trying to find Patton–I’m sorry about the–ow, shit–” The Dragon Witch is saying while catching canisters full of spice in the torso.

“Get outta my house, foul demon!” Roman is saying, rifling through his cabinet for more spices while brandishing his broom. “The power of, ah–” he fumbles for the label– “paprika compels you!”

The paprika container sails through the air. Logan follows its path with his eyes. _ I don’t know him, _ he thinks. _ He’s not my best friend. I didn’t date his brother in high school. This isn’t happening. _

“Roman, please, I’m just–Oh, hey, Patton! I’m so glad you’re–ow–you’re okay!” The Dragon Witch straightens just in time to get hit so perfectly with the paprika container that it gets suspended in midair for a moment.

“Don’t bring your leader into this, satan spawn!” Roman cries. Logan stares at the ceiling, trying to block out the idiocy of this situation. Patton makes a sputtering noise. 

Roman launches his broom at the Dragon Witch. It hits him in the stomach. He topples over, groaning a little. Logan glances at Patton, who looks to be a mixture of concerned and tickled.

“I did it.” Roman blinks at the crumpled heap on his hardwood. “I did it! I defeated the demon!” He laughs, throwing up his arms and dancing around his kitchen. “I did it, I did it, I–oh, hey, Logan, when did you get here? Who’s that?”

Logan reaches forward and smacks Roman on the back of the head, ignoring his annoyed ‘hey!’ _ “This _is Patton, the Dragon Witch’s friend.”

“Who?” Roman asks, rubbing the back of his head.

Logan squints at him. “The Dragon Witch? _ Your _imaginary friend? Well, I suppose not so imaginary, but…” 

Patton brushes a hand against the back of his arm. Logan turns to look at him, and he shakes his head.

“I’m going to check on Virgil,” Patton says. “Maybe you should fill Roman in on what’s going on.” He leaves Logan to explain everything to Roman.

Virgil hasn’t gotten up, hasn’t moved, hell, Patton’s pretty sure he hasn’t breathed since Roman javellinned his broom at him. He’s a nebulous lump on the floor. Patton takes a seat next to him, laying a hand on his side. “How’s it going, big guy?”

“He forgot me.”

Patton winces. “He was a kid. That’s what they do, they forget us.”

Virgil’s lump shifts a little. “Logan didn’t forget you. You can wish it all you want, but he won’t.” 

“Logan spent the last evening up until he texted Roman this morning thinking I was a hallucination,” Patton corrects gently. “He still believes in me, somehow, but I don’t think it will last long. Not now that I’m here.”

“You’re still leaving?” The lump shudders along with Virgil’s shaky breathing. “But–I thought if you came here you were just gonna–just _ talk _ to him, you need him–and I need _ you _ – _ ” _Virgil sits up, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, to grab at Patton’s shirt with both hands. “Pat, you can’t leave, I can’t do this on my own. I need you.” 

Patton focuses on a small pile of paprika on the floor near Virgil’s foot. “Now, don’t say that, kiddo. You could get to know Roman now, and then when I’m gone–”

“His birthday is October sixteenth, he loves spaghetti and despises Reese’s because once he ate twelve in a row and threw up, when he was in middle school, he almost lost touch with his brother because he fell in with a clique.” Virgil glares up at Patton, the black holes under his eyes growing. “I _ know _ him. I don’t need to learn him again. I know he doesn’t _ want _ – _ ” _ His breath shudders, and he looks down. “I _ know.” _

“Okay, kiddo,” Patton murmurs, drawing Virgil into a hug. “Okay.”

“Don’t leave,” Virgil whispers. 

Patton says nothing.

“Hey, are you two feeling well?” Logan asks. His arms are crossed where he stands next to Roman, who stares at his counter, shell-shocked.

“Uh,” Patton hesitates.

“Yes,” Virgil growls. He pulls away, standing and moving closer to the pair. Patton follows. “We’re fine.”

“Satisfactory,” Logan says. “Now, as I have no interest in attempting to figure out the ‘why,’ ‘how,’ or ‘when’ of all of this, we are going to get an appointment with Emile.”

Emile, huh? Patton casts his mind around, wondering where he’s heard that name before. 

He glances at Virgil, who is intensely staring at the floor. 

Apparently, Logan notices this too, because he elbows Roman in the side, spurring a panicked expression from him. Logan glares at him imperiously, more how a parent stares their child down than a friend.

“Okay, okay,” Roman mutters, moving forward. “Um, I just–Logan explained everything to me, and I wanted to apologise to you, ahm, Virgil. Sorry about the spices. And the broom. And the cups. And–”

“It’s fine, Princey. Just drop it.” Virgil doesn’t look up, and his voice is cold. 

Patton sighs. “So, where’s Emile?”

Logan adjusts his glasses. “He’s approximately thirty minutes from here. Therefore, I would suggest we leave as soon as possible, so I may change my clothes and brush my teeth.”

“Well, then, I suppose we should hop to it!” Patton plasters a grin on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was long. I tried. Next chapter will probably take, like, months. Sorry about that. But, ah, I hope you liked it? I guess? 
> 
> Also I'm sure everyone knows, but the stolen words Logan used were an Arthur Conan Doyle quote.
> 
> Have a nice day!


	3. What Do You MEAN Coins Went Out of Style? They're COINS!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say hi to Emile! Also Roman's issues with Virge continue and Patton is... helpful? 
> 
> Logan needs more coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am supremely unhappy with myself.
> 
> This is an uninteresting chapter in a quickly deteriorating story, so be warned. Sorry for wasting your time.
> 
> Still, hope your day went well, and 'enjoy.'

Emile taps a pencil to his pursed lips, staring at a stain on the ceiling. “So, you’re saying that Patton and Virgil just… showed up? In places the both of you frequent, for no concrete reason?”

“Yes.” Logan shifts on the couch, clearly impatient. 

Emile did always see the Toph in him. Searching for quick, simple, fitting answers. It suits a scientist. “And you want to know why.”

_ “Yes.” _

“Have you tried asking them?” Emile waves a hand at the two. They sit on another set of chairs to the left of Roman (who hasn’t said much of anything since they’ve sat down) and Logan’s shared loveseat. Virgil runs his hands through his cape, staring at the floor. Patton is occupied surveying the various baubles and knicknacks around Emile’s office, smiling gently. 

Logan pulls his lower lip between his teeth, glancing down at the ground. “We were a little preoccupied by how they  _ shouldn’t exist.” _

“Well, now,” Emile winces, Remy’s voice echoing with outrage through his memories. “I don’t think that’s a very  _ constructive  _ thought, Dexter.”

“I thought you agreed not to call me by any ridiculous cartoon references,” Logan snaps, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat.

“I thought you agreed to start being just a little more open to nonsensical frivolities,” Emile shoots back, twirling his pencil between his fingers.

Logan’s face twitches. “That isn’t what you meant, and this is a little more than  _ nonsensical.”  _

“You’re right.”

Logan stares, eyes wide in that way Emile has parsed to mean he wasn’t expecting an affirmation. 

“You’re right,” Emile repeats. “This is more than nonsensical.  _ They  _ are more than nonsensical. They are real… deities, I suppose. They’re real  _ people,  _ Logan. And it’s time to stop treating them like they aren’t here.”

Logan blinks, and Emile turns to Patton and Virgil. “So, why  _ have  _ you two come calling? I wouldn’t have taken the Man on the Moon for an Invader Zim reenactor!” 

Patton cocks his head to the side, a befuddled grin on his face. “Oh, I dunno. Just… felt like a visit would be nice. To be honest, I was expecting Lo to remember me more, for how much he believes!” 

Emile ignores that last part for now, instead turning to the resident Star Lord. “And you, Virgil?”

“Followed Patton.”

Emile waits, but Virgil says nothing more. “Well, then. Um. Does anyone have any… questions for our newcomers?”

“Several.” Logan turns to face Patton and Virgil head on. “How did you get here? Where are you planning to stay? How did you determine visiting us was necessary?”

Emile looks up at the ceiling, sighing quietly. Ah, Logan. 

Patton smiles, but it seems strained. Emile purses his lips.

“Well, I, ah,” He pauses, staring up at nothing. “I’ll be honest, Logan. I was hoping to stay with you. You’re… neat. And you’re one of the last people who–er, who I know very well. Not many kids grow up and remember their imaginary friends, you know!” Patton glances at Virgil guiltily, rearranging his hands in his lap.

Logan nods as though it physically pains him to do so. “Satisfactory. But how did you get here?”

“Lo, does that really matter?” Emile cuts in. “No new data will change the fact that they  _ are  _ here. And I believe Patton just asked to stay at your place. Do you want him to?”

Logan stares at the ground. “I wouldn’t mind housing Patton for the time being,” he mumbles. “But where would Virgil stay? I don’t have the space for two guests, unless they wouldn’t mind sharing–”

  
  


“He could stay at my place!” Roman almost shouts, hands fisted at his sides. Emile’s gaze slides over him. His eyes dart around the room, skittering away from Emile as though the mere sight of him is a death sentence. 

“Roman, you shouldn’t feel the need to–” Logan starts, only to be cut off by Roman.

“I want to.”

“Well, I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Emile butts in, keeping his gaze trained on Logan. “And in addition, I think perhaps I should keep an appointment or two with our space men, just to see how they’re adjusting to Earth.” He glances at Patton and Virgil, who give no preference away.

Logan looks like he swallowed a lemon. “I… am satisfied by this conclusion.”

“Excellent!” Emile claps his hands softly, ignoring the less-than-excited faces around him. “How about next Friday at four?”

-:-

  
  


Logan glances over at Roman, whose shaking has, fortunately, slowed to a sudden shuddering every five to ten minutes approximately. 

“I apologize, Roman,” he says, as gentle as possible. “I forgot about your phobia. I should not have brought you along. You need not attend any further sessions.”

“It’s–” Roman takes a deep breath. “It’s alright, Logan. I forgot too, to be totally honest.” He pulls the corners of his lips up in a strained smile. “And besides, it’s not like I’ll be going alone. I’ll have the Emo Nightmare to keep me company.” 

They both glance back at Virgil, who is walking silently alongside Patton, like some sort of terrifying shadow.

Roman swallows. “Sheesh, what’s his problem?” He huffs a weak laugh. “So angry at me. For what?”

Logan takes a moment to look at Roman. His smile is brittle; his eyes full of questions. He winces, adjusting his glasses. If there is one thing Roman hates more than any other, it’s not knowing why people are upset with him. “I don’t know, Roman. Perhaps that could be your first session.”

Roman bestows upon him a watery grin, and Logan counts it as a win. Their odd group progresses down the block a ways.

They pass a Hot Topic, and Roman’s head snaps up. “This is a fiver, Lo.” 

Logan quirks his lips up briefly. If Roman is calling a five-minute shopping trip, the day must be looking up, terrifying therapy sessions aside. He draws toward the storefront’s heavily shadowed wall, gesturing for Patton and Virgil to do the same.

“What’s Roman doing?” Asks Patton. He has his cardigan tied around his waist today. It’s unfairly… cute, Logan must say. 

Logan leans against the wall, crossing his arms and kicking up a leg behind himself. “He’s shopping. Hot Topic is an uncharacteristic choice, however.” Seeing how Virgil is examining the display, though, Logan can guess the reasoning behind it.

“And how do you do it?” Patton asks.

Logan blinks, raising a bemused eyebrow. “You… buy things? You give the cashier money and they let you leave the store with what you have? What is confusing?”

Virgil perks up over Patton’s shoulder. “What’s money look like now? I heard from Sirius it’s made of paper.”

Bewildered, Logan pulls a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and holds it out for Virgil, who snatches it with a surprising agility. Logan adds it to his growing list of questions he has about the two… Celestials in front of him. 

“Twenty?” Virgil mutters curiously. “Twenty what? It’s made of paper, how can it be twenty of anything? It’s one piece of paper. Patton, look.” 

Patton leans over to see the apparently fascinating dollar bill. “Maybe you should ask Logan, huh, Virge?”

Virgil frowns like the very idea makes him sick to his stomach, which Logan can relate to. To stave off the undoubtedly awkward asking exchange, he pitches in. “Twenty dollars.”

Virgil’s head snaps up to meet his gaze, eyes round as coins. “What’s a dollar? How did they decide what a dollar means? Don’t the papers rip?”

“A dollar is a unit of American currency created in the seventeen hundreds,” Logan informs him, slipping into his teaching voice. “Because it’s made of paper, it’s worth fluctuates depending on a multitude of different variables, including the relative scarcities of some products, goods, and services. The bills are made of a blend of cotton and linen, and are therefore difficult to tear or otherwise destroy.”

Virgil shuffles closer to Logan. Behind him, Patton is snickering silently at his friends wonder. 

“Why did you stop using coins?” Virgil demands. “Surely that was easier.”

“We still use coins,” Logan explains, “they’re just worth less than dollars. And we phased out of pure coin currency due to a lack of precious metals mixed with an excess of IOU’s from the government, as I recall.”

Virgil stares down at the bill like it’s the single most interesting thing in the universe. Patton coos silently.

“You can keep it, if you’d like,” Logan says, ignoring the small, reflexive twinge of panic shooting down his arms as he iterates it.

The look Virgil gives him–like he’s a saint, like he personally hung the moon–and the careful way he folds the bill and stores it in his cape makes it worthwhile. 

“Okay, got it!” Roman shouts, jogging up with a large bag. “Sorry for the wait, Logan.”

“It was no issue,” Logan assures him, taking off once more. “I was informing Virgil and Patton of this age’s currency.”

Roman blinks in confusion, then shakes his head and hustles to catch up with the other three.

-:-

“How do you think this will go?” Emile asks. 

“You’re the therapist, babe,” Remy says, twirling him to the crooning of Rose Quartz. “I’m just a washed-up–”

“What have we agreed on?” Emile asks, wrapping his arms around Remy’s middle and burying his face in his husband’s warm chest.

Remy sighs over dramatically. “No name-calling, no over caffeination, critique, do not destroy.” He returns Emile’s bear hug gently. No matter how long it’s been, the care Remy treats him with makes Emile’s insides go fuzzy. “You do understand, babe, you don’t have to be  _ my  _ therapist anymore, right?”

“Yes,” Emile hums, swaying to Greg's guitar solo. “But what can I do for you? This. I can’t help with your job, I can’t help you sleep, I can’t do much for Patton or Virgil–”

“Hey.” Remy’s palms hold Emile’s biceps softly through his baby blue sweater, and he stoops to look his wonderful, beautiful, talented husband in the eye. “If I have to follow the rules, so do you.”

Emile nods, eyes filling with unwarranted tears. It’s been that kind of day.

“Oh, hon,” Remy murmurs, pulling him to their big comfy tan couch. “I know. I know. Sometimes life is stressful. Especially when a long-time patient and godson comes in with your hubby’s only family, whom you’ve never met before, as well as his best friend, who you’ve also never met before.” 

Emile gives a wet chuckle.

“Yeah, I’m not that funny today, am I?” Remy squeezes his husband in that achingly sweet way of his, hands running up and down his arms.

“Roman’s scared of me,” Emile rasps. “I think… He’s had bad experiences.” His tears are drying up.

“Well then,” Remy says, “All you’ve gotta do is make better ones. Sounds simple enough, right hon?” 

“Sure. If by simple you mean ‘a metaphorical minefield.’”

“Now, Emile, that’s quitter talk.” Remy grins in that lopsided way of his and oh, it’s two-forty-eight all over again.

“Love you, Rem.”

“Love you, Em. Need help sleeping?”

“Not tonight, my beautiful Sandman,” Emile giggles.

Remy’s responding smile is soft and sugar-sweet, just like the kiss they share before turning off the stereo and heading to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...money nerd Virgil, huh? 
> 
> And, uh, yeah, Roman is terrified of Emile. Mostly because of that one vine where he runs away from the guidance counselor. 
> 
> Yell at me in the comments, please!


	4. Man, FUCK Zippers. (Actually wait no they're cool)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil gets a gear upgrade. Roman feels guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to me, happy birthday to me, something bla bla bla, happy birthday to me.
> 
> I hope you don't mind I got you a gift, but I tried my best.

“So,” Roman says, swinging the Hot Topic bag in his hands. “How are you settling?”

Virgil considers him. 

Roman’s grown up.

Virgil knew this, somewhere in himself, _ (Knew? _ Thousands of baby black holes whisper to him, threatening to swallow Virgil. _ We _ felt. _ His fire burned weaker, left you dizzy, left you alone; it supernovaed and ate you up, ate _us up–) but seeing it is something different. 

His skin is darker; not quite the bronze it was when he was young, now more tawny gold. His bright green eyes are lined with what Virgil assumes is kohl. 

He’s striking, but there is a sharpness to him Virgil hasn’t seen before. A charcoal finish to chocolate squares. Bittersweet. 

This new, kohl-lined, sharp Roman stares at Virgil with unknowing green eyes, and it awakens the black hole inside him, a stinging gnaw in his chest. 

He looks away, at the righted couch and swept floor to his left. 

“I am fine,” he says softly. “Thank you for housing me.”

Roman offers him a strained grin, drawing into himself and swinging the bag against his shins. “Well, uh,” he stutters, staring at the ground. “I got you something. As a, um, welcome gift? I guess? Er, uh–here.”

He thrusts the bag at Virgil.

Virgil, now with a bag in his hands, stares at the ground. 

This is not going well.

“You can open it,” Roman says.

“...” Virgil says. 

He opens the bag to find a wad of black and purple cloth. 

Curious. Virgil reaches in a hand in to grip the fabric, pulling it out as though he fears it will bite him.

It’s a...type of cloak?

Virgil inspects it quizzically. The last time he’d accompanied Patton on one of his trips to Earth, (besides playing with Roman, which really didn’t count because Roman went everywhere in a hand-made prince costume and spoke of almost nothing but their play) they’d said it was seven-teen-thirty-four. Virgil doesn’t quite know what that means, but he knows people wore cloaks and used coins. 

He’d quite liked cloaks and their many facets. He can keep track of his Little Bits in position to him at all times, and the constant movement of them is quite alluring. Not to mention how easy they are to hide in.

This… Not-a-Cloak is shorter than Virgil’s current clothing. Mostly, it is black, but the darkness is broken up by patches of violet crosshatched fabric. 

There is a hood in all black, and over the heart lies a purple stormcloud spewing a tiny bolt of lightning, as well as some sort of contraption around the largest seam.

Virgil cannot for the life of him understand what it is. 

It must be a sort of jacket-closing-device, but how does it fasten? Where are the buttons?

“... Do you… like it?” Roman asks. His hands are clasped behind his back, but Virgil knows they’re fidgeting, tapping out rhythms only Roman can hear.

Virgil squints at it, unable to suppress a slight twinge of irritation at Patton for leaving him behind with his Bits. Of course Patton knows how these work. He has one that he’s taken to tying around his shoulders. 

“I don’t… understand it,” Virgil growls finally. “The lever…” he points at the offending contraption.

Roman stares for a second before laughing outright. Virgil bristles. “Oh, Moody B. Moans, that’s a zipper. Here–” he reaches for Virgil’s cloak, asking silent permission to remove it. Virgil begrudgingly agrees, letting the garment be taken from him and immediately regretting it. 

What if Roman doesn’t give it back? What if he looks at Virgil’s dress shirt and laughs? Clearly what Virgil deemed appropriate attire isn’t commonplace in this new time. He doesn’t need Roman taunting him consciously on top of what’s already happened–

Roman taps on Virgil’s wrist.

Virgil turns to look perhaps faster than a human would be able to. The sleeve of the garment is held flush against Roman’s chest, and he’s offering the opening to Virgil. Unsure of what else to do, he shrugs his arm through the hole and puts on the rest of the jacket.

It’s comfortable. Soft, warm, and it smells vaguely of nutmeg. A far cry from his rather thin cloak.

“Now,” Roman says, moving to stand directly in front of Virgil. “A zipper is easy to use. You just put the tail through the head,” he takes one piece of the ‘zipper,’ slides it up it’s apparent track a few times, and inserts the other side in through a hole at the top. “Then pull.” Roman pulls the zipper up about halfway before letting go and stepping back. “Now you try.”

Virgil takes the sliding piece and moves it up and down a few times. 

The more he does it, the easier it is. The more inventive it seems, too.

“Zipper.” Virgil tests the word on his tongue. “A zipper. Humans really are imaginative, aren’t they?” He grins to himself, forgetting for a second that this new, sharp Roman looks at him with unknowing eyes, and says, “Hey, Princey–” before choking on his own mistake.

Roman cocks his head at him, uncomprehending. “Princey?” He smiles, bemused. He shouldn't be bemused, but Virgil is well past caring about that. “Finally, someone who understands my chivalrous ways.”

He’s shorter than Virgil. Virgil knows this, because he is staring down at Roman under his dark bangs.

Somehow, it never registered that Roman was still shorter.

“Yeah,” Virgil says. “Hey, do you know who invented the zipper?”

“Ahh, unfortunately I am not our dearest Doc Ock-ward, and therefore do not, in fact, have the privilege of that knowledge. But I know the whole thing’s called a hoodie. And you could Google the rest?” Roman says, as though this is a rational statement that makes sense.

“What?” Virgil asks.

Height, he thinks, as Roman blusters about the crime it is to live without the internet. That’s what he has on Roman, after all these years. 

Height and memories.

To be fair, that’s all Virgil really needs.

-:-

The comfort of Virgil’s new hoodie is short-lived on Friday, when his and Roman’s appointment with Emile is scheduled. 

Virgil watches Roman flutter around his apartment, full of nervous energy, cleaning and singing and straightening until there’s nothing left to do but sit.

Roman, Virgil remembers from their one very short game of hide-and-seek when he was five, is not good at sitting.

He’s changed his outfit three times; currently the winner of Ensemble Roulet is a white button up shirt tucked into a deep red chiffon skirt, swirling delicately around Roman’s knees. A brown corduroy cropped jacket and black tights finish the look. 

“Do you want to get out?” Roman asks, mid way through an episode of some ‘show’ called Parks and Recreation. “Of the house, I mean, this can’t be what you came to see; a grown man sitting in his house watching tv all day like a couch potato, I mean really–”

“Roman,” Virgil interjects. “I wouldn’t mind going out.”

Roman grins his strangled, uncomfortable grin as he puts on some brown Doc Martens and they depart from his home.

-:-

Virgil remembers hot cocoa. It was Roman’s favorite drink as a child, and he insisted Virgil be given a mug every time they played together in the winter. 

Now, sitting in a homey ‘Coffee Shop’ with Roman across from him, sipping his own tea, Virgil (wearing a borrowed pair of black skinny jeans and a purple ‘tee-shirt’ under his new hoodie, neither of which gave him so much trouble) wishes he’d gotten anything else. 

“So,” Roman says, eyes darting around Virgil’s head, resolutely avoiding his eyes. “How are you, Mr. Lord of the Stars? Any missus at home I should know about?”

“No,” Says Virgil. He’s chosen his cocoa mug to stare into as though it holds the answer to all his problems. 

It’s a lot to ask of cocoa. 

Roman makes the appropriate noise one makes when they’ve been given an unsatisfactory answer by another party and cannot uphold the conversation as it lies. Nevertheless, he persists. “How’s Patton?” 

“Fine… He’s fine.”

“That doesn’t sound very fine.” Roman tips his head to the side, leaning forward. 

That quirk hasn’t changed, at least.

Virgil curls his fingers around the mug of cocoa, deliberating. He could lie. Tell Roman to fuck off. 

That’s certainly what the black hole (the very literal black hole,it would be prudent to recognize) eating him alive would like.

But Virgil knows Roman wants to help. Knows Roman just doesn’t fully_ understand _. 

It’s because of this Virgil lifts his mug to his lips and says, eyes burning holes in the dark wooden tables of the ‘cafe,’ “He’s distant. He’s planning to leave. Soon.”

“Leave?”

Virgil doesn’t have to look at Roman to know the confused expression buching his face. He hunches further over the table. “Do you know how gods die?”

“I was under the impression they couldn’t. Immortal, and all that jazz.”

A sharp bark of laughter rips itself from Virgil’s throat. “Wouldn’t we think.” He straightens, pulling his hoodie closer to himself. “I believe we are a bit late to the session.”

“What–oh _ shit!” _

Virgil snickers to himself, quietly vindictive.

Black holes used to shine the brightest, after all.

-:-

Doctor Emile Picani’s tie is the shade of Patrick Star if he were just a tad oversaturated. 

Roman knows this because he’s been staring at said tie for the past five minutes. 

For goodness’ sake, why can’t he just meet the man’s eyes? It’ll be _ fine; _ Roman _ knows _it’ll be fine. Logan and Remus see Dr. Picani almost every week between them! 

Of course, Logan and Remus want therapy, and they’ve never… 

But that was Roman’s fault, anyway, for being so overzealous, and Dr. Picani isn’t even here for _ him. _Roman’s only attending sessions to help Virgil feel more comfortable.

...Not that he’s actually helping in that regard, either. It seems dearest Jeffer-sulk Starship will hate him no matter what peace offering Roman brings. 

Roman doesn’t even know what he did _ wrong. _

“Roman?” Dr. Picani’s asks, head tilted. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Do you have any thoughts you’d like to air out?”

Roman’s stomach clenches. 

_ Roman, you’ve been so quiet. Don’t you want to tell me about your friend? _

_ Roman, you know talking to him will only give him more power. _

_ Roman, you don’t know what you’re doing. _

_ Let me help you, Roman. _

“No, I’m okay,” he manages, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

Dr. Picani’s lips purse, and Roman flinches so hard he nearly smacks Virgil where they’re both sitting on the same chocolate couch. “I mean, ah, I’m–I’m doing good, today. I’m great!” He giggles, quite possibly a little hysterically. 

“Roman,” Dr. Picani frowns, _ shit, _ why can’t Roman stop _ messing up, _“You don’t have to lie to me. I only want to help.”

Roman lets out a real hysterical giggle, now. “I doubt you’d like to listen to me. Really, it’s fine, I’m fine. I just feel a tad… jittery.”

“Well, that’s not what you’re supposed to feel in therapy,” Dr. Picani says. “Do you think you’d maybe prefer to wait outside? Even princes need rest, you know.”

“No, no,” Roman says, shaking his head as well as a hand. “I’m fine, truly.”

“You don’t have to lie, Princey. It’s fine,” Virgil mutters.

_ Don’t lie to me, Roman. I’m trying to help you. _

_ Stop being so difficult. _

“I don’t know what I did!” Roman shouts, fists balling up the chiffon of his skirt in his hands. Anything to clear that voice out of his head, get him _ out _of that office so unlike this one, sterile white and cutting lines.

He turns to Virgil, chest heaving as he gulps in air; there isn’t enough, but he manages, “I’m trying to make amends, I swear, I _ swear, _ Virgil, but I _ can’t _ if I don’t know what I did wrong.” Roman stares at the couch cushions, tears swelling in his eyes, and wishes his hair was long again so he could tug at it instead of bracing his palms on the firm fabric and tapping his fingers. “Please. _ Please, _just tell me.”

“Roman…” Virgil says. “You–you haven’t done–”

Roman’s head snaps up and he meets Virgil’s gaze. “Don’t.” His breath rattles like screeching chains. “Don’t lie to me. Please. Just tell me what I did.”

He watches Virgil struggle with his answer, stomach churning for a much different reason. 

He can’t remember Virgil at all, but _ clearly _something happened between them a long time ago.

When did they meet? During middle school? Roman was a prick back then. He almost lost Remus; did he lose Virgil too? 

What were they?

Virgil remembers. Virgil looks at him like he knows everything about Roman, how he acts, what he means, who he is. And Roman has to claw his way to any answer about Virgil’s life.

What did Roman _ do? _How did he end it, whatever it was? Did he–could he have–

_ “Hey! Roman!” _

_ Roman rolls his eyes, stopping short and turning to glare at Remus. “What?” _

_ Remus recoils, brows furrowed in surprise. He swallows. “Uh, I wanted to know if you wanted to draw together? After school?” _

_ Roman’s lip curls in disgust at the thought of Remus’ ‘drawings.’ “Why would I _ ever _ draw with _ you _ hanging over me, destroying everything everything you touch?” _

_ Remus’ eyes shine with pain, but his shoulders slump. Good. He should know by now that Roman wants nothing to do with him. _

_ “Leave me the fuck alone, Remus,” Roman orders, turning and continuing on his way. _

Roman jerks like the memory burned him. (Like he can escape it). He couldn’t have said something that awful _ twice, _ right? _ Right? _

Swallowing back bile, Roman meets Virgil’s eyes again. 

“Roman, I…” Virgil says. “I don’t know how to–I don’t know if I should–” he cuts a worried glance to Dr. Picani, who nods, startled out of the pained expression on his face.

His voice sticks as he says, “Keeping issues internal doesn’t do much but make them worse. Talking may seem hard, may _ be _hard, but it’s worth it. If you don’t, it just festers, and you could face very real consequences.”

Virgil swallows, nodding. “Like… like a black hole, right?” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a grimace. 

He shifts on the couch, leaning in towards the coffee table in the middle of the office. “I… This isn’t your fault, Roman. None of this is your fault. This is how it goes, right?” He quirks that same lip. “Children grow up, they forget their imaginary friends, that’s how it goes. Even when those friends aren’t so imaginary. I can’t blame you. I just…”

Virgil’s body tenses, and something seems to almost _ ripple _through him. Dark. Like space. Roman watches with a mixture of awe and horror.

“Being forgotten… It’s the worst thing that can happen to a–a Celestial–which, uh, is what we call ourselves. If too many people forget you, well...” Virgil glances between Dr. Picani and Roman, then back down to the table. “Celestials are only here because people believe in us. We don’t stay longer than those same people believe.” He clears his throat. “I’m lucky, though. My Lit–uh, my stars, they know me. And they live longer than humans.”

“Ehm,” Emile readjusts in his chair, pencil poised over his notebook. “Would you mind elaborating on that? I’m afraid we may not follow.”

Roman smooths his skirt down, ignoring the mounting dread in his stomach and trying to _ remember. _ Virgil said they knew each other. Roman _ has to _remember. 

“Which–uh, which part?” Virgil asks, voice more gravelly than usual. 

“Both, if you could,” Dr. Picani asks. “No pressure.”

“Well, ah,” Virgil’s skin ripples Dark again. “You can feel it. It–we all described it differently; Patton thought it was like being cut from strings, Rem always said it was like he was disintegrating, and I–” Virgil’s voice catches, and Roman aches to touch him; to rest a hand on his shoulder and let him know it’s _ okay. _

Why can’t Roman _ remember? _

_ Did he ever have an imaginary friend? _

“When I am for–forgotten, I can feel them _ eating _ at me,” Virgil hides his face in his hand. “Like black holes. It isn’t quite _ painful, _ most of the time. But, well, mostly I’m not so close.”

Roman flinches. Remember, _ remember. _Dammit. 

Roman can’t remember any make-believe playmate; as a child or otherwise. 

_ Dammit. _

“And,” Virgil sighs. “As for my Little–or, my stars; I made them. I make them. And they live longer than humans. _ Much _longer.”

Roman gapes. “You _ make _the stars?”

“More like I put the right pieces in place. They make themselves.” Virgil straightens a bit. “I’m more of a… father figure.” A wry smile plays on his lips. “Sirius would hate me saying that.”

“That’s amazing, Virgil!” Dr. Picani gasps. “They’re so beautiful! And, am I correct in assuming they are sentient?”

“Yeah,” Virgil nods, leaning back in his chair. “They’ve got souls, just like you and me. We talk all the time. I love visiting them.”

“And because they live so long and see you so much, they keep your memory close.” Dr. Picani scribbles something down in his notebook, eyebrows raised in astonishment. “Would you mind explaining yours and Roman’s relationship? Only if you feel comfortable.” Dr. Picani turns to Roman, softening visibly, which makes the churning in his stomach _ worse. _“You can add in as much as you like.”

He could indeed. 

If he could just figure out when Virgil was–when they were–_ if _they were.

Roman bites his lip. “I don’t–are you sure?” 

Virgil blinks. “Yes, I’m sure. You were there, don’t you remember?” 

“No,” Roman says, breath coming quicker as he stares down at the table in front of him. “No, I don’t remember. I never had imaginary friends as a kid. I didn’t have anything except nightm–”

_ ‘Come play with me, little King!’ _

_ Starlight filtering through thorny vines wrapped around stone columns like throats, like Roman’s throat, he can't breathe, it burns, it burns, he can't breathe, HE CAN’T BREATHE- _

_ ‘We’ll have eons of fun!’ _

Roman almost screams. 

He’s certain he pales, based on Virgil’s worried face swimming in his vision, but the fact that _ those _memories have resurfaced take precedence. 

“–man? Roman? Can you hear me? Can you breathe? Four beats with me, okay?” 

Beats. 

Roman latches onto beats, picking a simple four-four time to hum as he gets his heart rate under control, just like Logan taught him.

“I’m fine,” he assures after a few minutes, waving a hand at Virgil. “I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” Virgil says. He’s chewing on his lip, and Roman wants it to stop. He’s caused Virgil enough pain. 

“Yes.” He reaches forward, unthinking, and brushes the hair out of Virgil’s eyes. 

He’s got nice eyes. Pretty and luminous, though they’re dark as pitch.

Like Virgil’s own miniature black holes, piercing Roman’s soul and tearing him to a mile-long chain of guilt. 

Roman clears his throat, tearing back his hand as though he’s been scorched. “You?”

Virgil stares into his eyes, watching for something Roman doesn’t have. “Confused. Worried. You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“Completely,” Roman lies.

Virgil’s black-hole-eyes bore holes into him, but his words are directed at Dr. Picani when he asks, “Is it… normal, not to remember having an imaginary friend as a child?”

Dr. Picani considers for a moment. “Most children do forget about them as they grow, yes. But, as Logan has evidenced, they are easily reminded of said friends. Moreover, usually they remember _ having _one, if not the specific details of who they were.”

Roman swallows. 

Great. He’s even shittier than he’d thought. 

“Regardless,” Dr. Picani sighs, flipping his notebook closed. “That’s enough new insight for today, and our time is up, unfortunately. Besides, I’ve made you cry for long enough.”

Virgil nods. 

“Wonderful,” Dr. Picani exhales. “Same time next week?”

Virgil nods again.

Roman goes through the motions of packing up and leaving in a haze, barely registering Virgil’s silent presence at his side until they cross the street at a crosswalk and Virgil takes his hand.

Startled, Roman’s head swings up to stare at Virgil, who immediately lets go. “I apologize,” he blusters. “You used to make me hold your hand all the way over as a child. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Roman shrugs. “No hard feelings, Morose-way Galaxy.”

Virgil snorts. “That was… not good.” Roman almost giggles, because maybe that means he didn’t break it, whatever _ it _was, completely? Maybe Virgil can forgive him for being such a fuck-up? Not now, surely, but soon. Just maybe.

“No, no it wasn’t,” he agrees. 

A beat.

“Do you…” Virgil clears his throat. “Do you not want to come back? With me? I know how to get there now, you don’t have to come.”

Roman licks his lips, casting his eyes downward at the sidewalk. “I don’t… know.” He adjusts his bag over his shoulder. “I… should. I want to remember you, I just…” 

He thinks of reliving that hell, going to that office, seeing that _ face _ in his head again, and wants to vomit. 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Virgil says. His voice brims with a special kind of heat Roman really only knows from when Remus found out about _ him. _“You don’t have to come back.”

Roman barks out a laugh. “Make _ me _ uncomfortable? As I recall, I am the one causing little black holes to open up in your skin.”

Virgil hums. “Maybe,” he says. “But you haven’t done anything wrong. You did what children do; forgot. I can’t fault you for that.”

“But I _ want _to remember,” Roman counters. A bloom of surprisingly volatile frustration wells up in his chest. 

“Then,” Virgil says, turning left, and oh, he already remembers Roman’s street? That’s so sweet. “I think you have your answer.”

And Roman…

Well, Roman doesn’t _ know _ the way psychics _ know. _ He doesn’t _ see _ the way the Oracle of Delphi _ saw _when ships were going to capsize, when Greece would go to war, and when innocent lives would be lost.

Roman is no fortune-teller, so he resolves himself to meet the challenge of facing Doctor Emile Picani head-on.

“Yes, I believe I do.”

  
  



End file.
